Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin #2)(26)

The moon is nearly full and shines down onto the palace courtyard with the light of a thousand candles. My heart slams against my ribs as a shadow flies overhead, then swoops in among the trees in the outer court. An owl. It is only an owl, hunting for its dinner.

I wait a moment to be certain the movement has not caught anyone’s attention, then skirt along the palace wall toward the old tower. I am filled with an unfamiliar calm. I know in my heart that what I am planning is the right thing to do. The sensation is as welcome as it is unfamiliar. This time, my hands are steady as I remove the key from the small pouch at my waist and then fit it to the lock.

There is a satisfying snick as it turns and I send a heartfelt thank-you to the cautious silversmith and his skill. As soon as I step inside, I am swarmed by the spirits of the tower, their icy presence chilling me to the bone.

Hugging the crumbling wall for support, I descend until I come to the second door. The key works here, too, and then I am standing in front of the final door. I move to the side, out of the line of the jailor’s sight. I can hear him shuffling across the floor, muttering unintelligibly to himself.

When I am certain that he is not near the door, I slowly bring my face up to the grille and peer in. If I could get close enough to his ale pot, I could drop some of my own sleeping draft into it, but it is too far from the door. My only choice is to call him over and use the night whispers powder. With my hood pulled low he will not be able to recognize my face when he wakes up. I cannot help but wonder if I am truly doing him a favor by not killing him outright. There is a good chance d’Albret’s wrath will fall on him if the prisoner is found dead, and the punishment will be swift and brutal.

Unless the prisoner is well enough to travel. Then all the jailor will have is a groggy head. At least until my next visit to break the knight out.

Just as I pull the twist of night whispers from my wrist sheath, there is the scrape of a boot on the stairs behind me. I glance around the antechamber, but there is no place to hide. I shove the packet back in its hiding place, grab the handle of my knife, and whirl around to face the stairs.

The tall, dark figure scowls in disbelief. “Sybella?”

Merde! It is no mere guard or sentry, but Julian. He takes three silent strides toward me and grabs my arm. “What are you doing here?” Behind the anger, I see true fear in his eyes.

“You’re back.” The joyful lilt in my voice is so convincing that even I almost believe it. I smile coquettishly. “How did you know where to find me?”

“I searched until I thought to check the one place you should not be.” He gives my arm a little shake. “You cannot imagine the danger you have put yourself in.”

“I could not sleep for the rattle and clank of the ghosts. Did you know this tower is haunted?”

“You could hear the sounds of haunting all the way from your chambers?” His eyes are wide with disbelief.

“Of course not.” I glance out from under my lashes. “I came to the chapel to pray for your safe return. That’s when I heard the rattling.”

The harsh planes of his face relax slightly. “While I appreciate your prayers, you have put yourself in harm’s way, prying where you should not.”

“How was I to know my prayers would be answered so quickly?” I smile, as if with true gratitude. Then I grow serious once more. “Ghosts, Julian. Can you feel them?” I allow a shiver to rack my body—easy enough with the chill of all the unquiet dead clinging to me like a mantle and so much fear coursing through me. I make certain to put a sparkle of excitement in my eyes. “Ghosts of all the prisoners who have died here, unshriven.” There is a faint rattle of chains just then, the first I have heard from the prisoner all night. I clutch at his arm. “There! Did you hear it? They could sneak into our rooms at night and suck the souls from our bodies.” I cross myself for good measure.

He studies me for a long, silent moment, then seems to make a decision. “Here. Let me show you these ghosts.” He lets go of my arm, then pounds once on the grilled door. As footsteps shuffle toward us, he glances down at me. “How did you get in?”

I blink, as if I do not understand his question. “I opened the door and walked in.”

“Impossible,” he hisses. A dark eye peers through the grille. He looks up so his face can be seen, then there is a rattling sound as the latch is lifted.

Interesting that the jailor opens the door so easily for my brother. Just how deeply is Julian in d’Albret’s confidence? I had thought him peripherally involved in d’Albret’s schemes, just enough to keep from drawing attention to himself, but now I must rethink that.

The door opens, and the strange little man makes a crooked bow. “That,” I say, looking at the creature, “is no ghost, but a crippled old man. Or a gargoyle.”

Julian shoots me an exasperated look, grabs my arm, and half drags me across the small room. I cover my nose with my hand. “And that is most definitely not an otherworldly stench,” I say.

“Behold.” Julian thrusts me toward a second door that also has a barred window at the top. “Your ghost.” Julian takes a torch from the wall and shoves it through the bars.

“Sweet Jésu,” I whisper. The man groans and tries to turn away from the bright flames. His face is beaten and misshapen and lumpy and crusted with blood. He is half naked, with naught but rags to cover him, and two great wounds in his left arm ooze darkly. I cannot believe this is the same creature who so valiantly fought off the duchess’s attackers but a fortnight ago. D’Albret has taken yet another bright, noble thing and ruined it. “Who is he?” It is no great trick, putting revulsion and disgust in my voice, for the prisoner has been treated like the vilest of criminals, a violation of all decent standards for ransom. We would not treat our oldest hound this poorly.